


Dead Dove Do Not Eat

by chewingonpearls (Reallife)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, Maybe I'm the one who is the paranoid Flake-oh, Nightmares, One-Shot Collection, Unexpected feelings, angsty, various ratings up to explicity, vulgarity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reallife/pseuds/chewingonpearls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Well, I don't know what you were expecting"</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A collection of stand alone ficlets focusing on Kate Bishop(Hawkeye)/Deadpool. Some will be connected, if so that will be noted, some will be AU, all of various ratings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Title and beginning lyrics borrowed from [Loser by Big Bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IwYWeK77fY)  
~*~

 

  
Loser, loner  
A coward who pretends to be tough  
A mean delinquent  
In the mirror, you’re  
JUST A LOSER  
A loner, a jackass covered in scars  
Dirty trash

Wade is good at a bunch of things, really. Jack of all trades and master of none is better than a master of one and all that jazz. An excellent juggler, a surprisingly good baker, fantastic improviser, and of course Wade is A+ at killing.

Oh, and sex. It’s the costumed community’s worst kept secret that Wade is a good person to call in for an amazing roll in the hay, and best part? No strings, no complications. Wade has a reputation that he is well aware of, he demands so very little from his partners, he puts their pleasure above his own and he’s willing to try--well, just about anything.

 

(This says something, a lot of somethings about his state of mind but he chooses not to think about it. Chooses not to think about a lot of things, really)

 

Wade is also very familiar with Battle Relief, it's why most other people have found their way to his bed. Most other costumed types at least, battle relief, get theirs after a fight, he gets his (mostly, but what he needs he isn't getting) and then the bed is cold again.

Except.

Except there is Hawkeye--the pretty one. Throws a wrench into things, like Hawkeyes like to do.  
Kate goes to California again, comes back and is a little different. Flirts with him more, but not the way he flirts with Peter or how Johnny Storm flirts with everyone (including Wade). Tucks her hair behind her ears, smiles at him like she knows things, and looks worried when he gets hit by a bazooka even though they know he'll be fine. Hell she even went out of her way to rescue his favorite taco van during a fight once, if that wasn’t enough to make his heart go pitter patter nothing was.

Kate finds him after a battle like most everyone does when they decide to get theirs from him. And he should have figured on it happening eventually.

 

Except

 

(Lots of excepts with Kate. Lots of warmth, lots of possibilities and muttered wishes under a polluted sky in a tattered sleeping bag)

Except it's hours after the fight, she's cleaned up and he's nearly healed when she knocks on his door like it's not the first time she's shown up there out of costume, with food and not shitty coffee.

(Like it’s normal. Like they are just people instead of a heiress with a righteous streak and a--whatever he is these days.)

It's not really Battle Relief because the adrenaline is gone but he tells himself it is because that's all anyone wants from Wade.

Everyone thinks he just wants a quick fuck, an orgasm and maybe a little pain and he's never really bothered to correct them. Because if he's being honest it's not just the scars that keeps people away.

Wade doesn’t expect her to strip, to drop her lovely soft clothes on his dirty socks and unswept floor. Nakedness isn’t necessary for sex, Wade is very familiar with that concept out of necessity. Kate is single minded though, bares her strengths and history on her skin for him with the same confidence and grace she wears her armor and weapons.

So he makes Kate Bishop writhe and sweat on his lumpy mattress, makes her scream (everyone does when Wade puts his mouth to good use), lays her out and kiss her scars (he isn't sure why. This isn't normal, why is he--), makes her whimper his name (not everyone does that, most times it's not his. or it's his other name). It’s that last one that makes his chest hurt like maybe that shrapnel he coughed up had a brother in his lungs, because it’s Kate but there is none of her bravado, none of her sarcasm or bite, no smirks when she whispers _Wade_ against the thin cotton of his sheets.

Normally he would be fucking his bedmate(if they could be called that) by now, even someone as insane as him has a process.

But like so many plans involving him it falls apart in her presence, because when he looks up from between her legs he can see her lips form his name and even though it’s a whisper it seems to claw itself into his veins and he suddenly needs it like air.

Wade could kill her right now. She’s open and vulnerable, a sheen of sweat over her pliant body and he could _kill_ her. His nose brushes against the femoral artery in her thigh, and he wouldn’t even have to move to take a hold of his katana. Kate wears no armor, no weapons in easy reach while pushing herself onto three fingers of a goddamn psychopath with something dangerously close to trust shining in her eyes.

He could fucking soak this mattress with her blood, there is nothing stopping him aside from his tentative grasp on reality. That, and her scent, the way it’s soaking into his skin, the feel of her hipbones against his lips when he leans up to bite them, the way her low keen of his name wraps around him in a way that should feel like chains but feels like a blanket instead.

All right, maybe there is more grounding him here than he realized. Because he’s memorizing the way she moans his name, wanting to hear it a dozen times more so his fractured mind can’t take this from him. Wants to throw it at the mirror when he wakes up in the middle of the night and can only hear screaming, only see blood blood blood. Use her voice like a knife at the boxes when they tell him to leave.

Wade is trembling when he moves back to spell his name with his tongue across her clit, when he changes the angle of his fingers in a way that makes Kate growl low and deep. Fights the urge to twine his fingers with hers, let her dig her nails into his arm instead of pulling his sheets off his goddamn bed (he’s wishing he still had hair for her to pull, wants to feel the pleasure he’s giving her in every way possible).

Instead he holds her hip up with his free hand, the angle is better anyway, before he pulls his face back, her slick over his chin and licks his lips. “You taste so good, Kate.” Her body shakes, and he can hear her make a sound akin to a whine. He’s so hard for her, so _hungry_ for Kate Bishop, for the sounds she makes and to be wrapped inside and around her he wants to--  
She’s so warm, so wet, and she can’t stay still, writhing around with an arched back and he hears her nails scrape against the wall because it’s almost too much but it’s not enough. He pulls away again and she starts to relax, to lower her bowed back to the bed and--

Kate’s panting and it’s like music--

He blows on her clit gently before wrapping his lips around it and sucking like he pictures her lips doing around his cock. Kate’s pretty lips that are screaming his name and obscenities enough to make Frank Castle blush.

Kate’s pussy clenches on his fingers as she orgasms, she’s screaming herself hoarse and he’s moaning into her and--

“Wade Wilson, you better,” she’s gasping for breath and he can almost hear her heart pounding as her hips hit the mattress, “get up here and fuck me now.”

It’s hard to say no to Kate, a fact he has always tried to hide, but he doesn’t resist now because he’s stupidly so close and she hasn’t even fucking touched his dick but it’s Kate so it’s worth it.

Unlike her he isn’t naked, but it takes only a moment to pull himself from his sweatpants,

“There’s condoms--”

Hands on his shoulders and legs around his hips, pulling him down.

“No, _now_ ,” She growled again, the words low and guttural and holy fuck Wade did not realize that was a thing for him and--

“Yessss,” There is no slow, there is no sweet when he slides into her. She pulls him until every inch of him is inside her (against her, arms around his neck, nails digging into his shoulder, teeth into his neck). He would suggest maybe they can try the reverse next if Kate’s into that sort of thing. Wade’s got plenty of toys for women who are, but if he’s being honest it would be redundant; Kate’s already inside of him, in his blood and rooted in his mind like the boxes, like the blood and like the screams.

He pulls back, pushing into her so hard she is moved up the bed.  
“Wade, Wade, fuck, yes, more--” This woman will be the death of him.

It’s over too quick.

Because he can feel her lips against his skin forming his name, feel her chest rise and fall. Because Kate’s no passive lover, hips rising and pushing against him, lips and teeth on his jaw and on anywhere else she can reach, sliding against his exposed skin; because they are both soaked with sweat.

So often, Wade has felt like he’s not really here, even before the cancer. Like his body isn’t his, like at any moment he will float away, wake up and not be there, or wake up to find he has just been one of the boxes all along.

Now? Now he is grounded, so very far from that fear. Katherine Bishop falls apart beneath him and Wade Wilson has never felt so together, surrounded by her.

He knows a lot about Kate, more than he should probably. Knows how the callouses on her hands feel going down his skin--

 

(Too much skin, he's bared too much for Kate, and he isn't just talking about skin and why does he do these things to himself he is so stupid.)

 

\--knows the smell of her favorite perfume, knows the face she makes when she bites into her favorite kind of cheesecake, knows about the fancy sheets she sleeps in at home that smells like lavender. Knows she should be running away from his apartment, from his pizza box collection, from his scars and chopsticks embedded in the wall (because why not?).

 

Except.

 

Except.

 

Kate pulls his comforter around her after she gets back from cleaning up and just rolls with her back to him. Snuggles into his pillows that smell like him (and will smell like Kate tomorrow, like her fruity shampoo, like her sweat and her weird facewash) and turns off the light.

 She waits for him to pull himself out of his shock and when he takes too long for her, she grabs his arm, pulls and tugs he's closer and it's wrapped around her middle.

(she makes a happy little sigh then, remaining tension draining out of her and he'll remember that sigh until he's mad, madder than he is now and lost everything else he'll still have that sound.)

"You can take off the mask all the way, I won't look." She turns off his lamp and is asleep in minutes.

It's batshit, it's stupid and reckless and deranged and all of the above and more and more--but he takes off his mask and buries his face in her hair to smell her without anything between them. The strands of her hair slide across his face, between his fingers, his lips trail along the back of her neck like he has any right to this kind of warmth.

This? This is his, this is him getting his for once, but it doesn't feel like taking, it feels like giving. Right now he would slaughter everyone he knows, everyone in this building for Kate Bishop, even though he knows this is a fluke and she'll be gone in the morning. Because she should be, this isn’t a place--he isn’t a person--for people like her, but tonight he’ll be selfish, tonight he’ll embrace this particular delusion of being cared for. Of a peek at a home.

~*~

It’s been a year. A year since she slid into his bed like it was hers and cuddled with him like he was worth cuddling with, it’s been eight months since he fucked anyone else because the last time he had done to Johnny what people used to do to him and surprise the blonde actually noticed Wade was picturing him with someone else’s face.

It’s stupid, he’s being stupid because she’s not at his apartment every night, only like. Two out of seven, or maybe four out of seven. Hard to tell sometimes which day it is for him, but he’s pretty sure it’s no more than four most weeks. She could be with anyone! She could be sleeping with other people! Why can’t he?

(consciously, he knows Kate isn’t doing this to him on purpose, just like she doesn’t purposefully wake up from nightmares in his bed just to frantically check his pulse and watch him sleep before lying back down while he acts like she didn’t wake him up.)

Kate is _normal_ , or as normal as a costumed hero can be. He’s seen her still go on dates (and they are dates! Doesn’t matter what Spidey and his cute butt says!). She goes shopping at regular stores and has regular friends.

The things they do together that make it hard for him to breathe, make him stop talking because he’s so damn giddy he can’t stop smiling probably have no impact on her. Honestly, he has no idea what things are important to a person like Kate.

Does it mean the same thing to her when she has a nightmare, and she’s up on the roof with her bow as if preparing for an onslaught (of the undead, probably) stone-faced and focused? What does it mean to her that she lets Wade babble at her endlessly before slowly smiling and joining him back in bed? Does the fact that he is soothing for someone (which makes him think maybe Kate really is the more reckless Hawkeye) and they trust him in that state of mind mean as much to her as it does to him?

Probably not.

She probably wouldn’t understand how his brain keeps switching from a pain so deep it’s hard to breathe to a burning rage that tears through his veins from one minute to the next because she’s sleeping in his bed with a broken leg, two broken ribs and a broken clavicle.  
Kate almost fucking died.

Right now he doesn’t care how many dates she goes on (not like he can really go on dates anyway, right?) or how much almond milk she keeps in his fridge (how does that even work) because she was almost _gone_.

Fucking Hawkeyes and their lack of self-preservation instincts, willing to martyr themselves for any little girl that bats their eyes or boy that cries at a little thing like rampaging dinosaurs. Healing factor wouldn’t help if he lost Kate, nothing would help if he lost Kate and _it’s so hard to breathe right now._

Wade is used to not having things. Not having the freedom to feel the sunshine on his face without people gawking at him, not having family or reliable friends (Logan is about as reliable as him most days, to be honest), not having someone to welcome him home, not having someone to snuggle with in the winter, not having faith, not having time-- days or weeks his fractured mind burns away for reasons he tries not to think about.

Except it’s not having Kate that gets under his skin, brings back long buried resentment that rises in his throat like bile.

Because he doesn’t have her, not really, and why would he? Look at her, even like this, she’s so beautiful, so _good_.

Kate probably shouldn’t be recovering at his apartment, and he isn’t sure why she is here over Clint’s, Cassie’s, one of her _normal_ friends or whoever she is officially romantically involved in.

It doesn’t really matter, because one day she’ll get tired of his ravings and his fucked up face, his fucked up place and his--well, his fucked up everything and she’ll leave. Because she deserves better. Someone who has her back instead missing the fucking robotic scorpion that was headed for her, someone who didn’t get thrown out of hospital rooms for being a health hazard.

(Anyone else but him)

He falls asleep with those thoughts, eyes locked on Kate’s sleeping form with an expression of bitterness and adoration and the taste of doubt in his mouth

Wade wakes to an aching neck and the smell of pancakes. His mind revs up like the engine of an old VW Rabbit in the winter and it’s a long moment before he launches out of his chair towards the kitchen where Kate is hobbling around while cooking.

“What are you doing?!” The batter sloshes onto his costume when he yanks it out of her hands. He should sound nicer, more sympathetic, softer, but he doesn’t know how. Instead he demands, “You should be laying down!”

Kate is as affronted by this suggestion as anyone would have expected. “I was hungry!”  
She turns from glaring at him to flip a pancake, the offended expression carrying into the movement still. “What did you want me to do, starve? Anyway,” she shrugs, “we kicked ass yesterday, and you destroyed the most bots so I wanted to make you pancakes.” Her mood has simmered down between one comment and the next, face softening and somehow it irritates him more.

The irrational urge to destroy something makes his fingers itch. It’s unreasonable, it wouldn’t make anything better and would provide only temporary satisfaction.

 _You_ are _irrational though_ , his brain reminds him and he gives in because temporary satisfaction is sometimes the best he gets and he lashes out, knocking the plate of finished pancakes off the counter onto the kitchen floor.

It shatters loudly but Kate doesn’t look at it, eyes locked on him with an expression he isn’t used to being aimed at him. Eyes taking in his face and cataloging away the details, _threat assessment_ his mind supplies, and he’s both relieved and angrier.

“You should be anywhere else, Kate! Recovering, resting, not in this goddamned shithole making pancakes!”

Kate’s good foot has slid back slightly as if she’s preparing for a fight, which is almost funny because her other leg is in a cast and her ribs are still bandaged but she’s still Kate so she does it anyway.

“I’m happy here, why shouldn’t I be here? Why the fuck are you so angry?”

 Kate is trying to retain her calm, trying not to stoke the fire of his anger, be the reasonable one but he’s making it extraordinarily difficult. “I’m not the kind of person people make pancakes for.” The bitterness and resentment from last night war with the compulsion to reach out to her, run his fingers over her knuckles and smell her hair.

Wade resists, though. “You should go.”

He would pour acid down his throat right now to stop the words from coming out if he was sensible (but he isn’t), “Get your boyfriend or girlfriend thing to make you breakfast.”

Kate shuts down so abruptly it almost makes a sound, back stiffening and emotion leaving her face. Moments like these he can see the heiress who had to find a life where she nearly dies weekly just to be happy. He can see the Widow in the set of Kate’s shoulders, Fury’s sharpness in her eyes when she looks him over, the way she raises herself up with Clint’s tenacity to always get back up, all wrapped and cemented in a strength and grace that is hers and hers alone.

Kate collects skills and strength like they are shiny bits of metal and she is a magpie instead of a Hawk.

It’s one of the things he lo--

“You don’t know me at all do you?”

Bile in his throat--Kate’s words are quiet, but they leave everything between them as shattered as the plate on the floor.

Wade leaves.

~*~


End file.
